


Deputized

by Amuly



Series: Marvel's 1872 [6]
Category: Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Western, Black Character(s), Character Study, Gen, Period-Typical Racism, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Wilson isn't interested in following Steve out west. Doesn't see the point in  uprooting his life just for, what? Some open skies, some overly romantic notions about what might be out there? No, thank you: Sam's just fine with his two feet in Brooklyn and his chin up. They won the war, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deputized

The evening sun was setting, igniting the western horizon in red and pink flame. Sam pulled level with his captain, forearms coming to rest on the railway alongside forearms. Captain Steve Rogers' were glowing almost pink in the setting sun. Sam's were as light as they every got, a warm brown. Quietly he considered the contrast as he waited on Steve to stir from his thoughts.  
  
"You should come with me," were the first things Steve said after minutes of silence.  
  
Sam was already shaking his head. "That's your journey, not mine. You're my captain-"  
  
"And I'm not ordering you," Steve promised. Shaking himself from his stupor, Steve turned to face Sam, now. His eyes were bright and earnest. Sam sighed. He'd done a lot of stupid shit because those damned honest eyes had believed in it. "I wouldn't order you," he promised again. "War's over. You're your own man."  
  
"Thanks to you," Sam pointed out.  
  
Steve's lips tightened. "You were your own man before the war. Some numbskulls just needed reminding. And not just thanks to me: you were there. You fought more than anyone."  
  
Sam shrugged. "Had more at stake than most." Steve had fought in the war because it was the right thing to do. Sam has fought selfishly. He didn't really see it equally, even if Steve insisted it was.  
  
Turning back to the conflagration on the horizon, Steve nodded at it. "War didn't reach out there. It's free of all that old baggage. Unspoiled."  
  
Sam shook his head. "You think the Native folk feel the same way?"  
  
"You think I'd allow any harm to come to someone unjustly?"  
  
Sam hummed. Steve didn't get it. Never would, not as much as he tried. "Lotsa pink skin coming over the horizon, looks like an invasion without any shots getting fired."  
  
"Then come with me. Break up the monotony."  
  
Sam laughed. He was sure that'd go over well.  
  
"We'll work together. You'll see."  
  
Sam shook his head. Dropped it. Didn't ask Steve what happened when he met some folks who didn't want to work together. Man had fought in a war and he still didn't get it: that skin color _mattered_ , that some people just wouldn't talk. That some sides didn't have any common ground, never could come to a mutually satisfactory conclusion. Sometimes Sam wondered if Steve would be so much of an idealist if he'd been born brown or red. And then Sam laughed to himself and shoved such thoughts away, because of course he would be. If he wasn't, he wouldn't be Steve.  
  
"Where you even planning on going? Got a stopping point in mind?"  
  
Steve shook his head, eyes glimmering with the western fire. "Go as far as feels right. Crossing the Mississippi in Saint Louis, but from there... Whatever path feels right under my horses' hooves."  
  
"What you planning on doing when you get there? You have no trade."  
  
Steve's mouth twisted in acknowledgement of that fact. "I paint." He sighed even before Sam opened his mouth. "I know. Not a blacksmith, or a carpenter. But I'm a steady hand and a strong back. Not to mention a quick enough study. Farming, ranching..."  
  
"You could be a sheriff," Sam pointed out. The last of the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. The last light in the west swallowed up by the dark. "Folks always need law and order."  
  
Steve reached up to rub the back of his neck. "I don't know about that, Sam. Not sure if I want to be that man anymore. Had my fill of ordering men around for one lifetime."  
  
"It doesn't sit badly on you. Captain," Sam pointed out.  
  
Steve sighed, dropped his hand. "Sits heavy on any man. And I'm growing tired of the weight."  
  
"Riding a thousand miles isn't going to change who you are, Captain." Sam stressed the last word.  
  
Steve rubbed his face, suddenly looking more tired than Sam had ever seen him. Even through the war, even after losing- Sam nodded.  
  
"But those open skies'll certainly give you a chance to breathe."  
  
Steve smiled in relief. Nodded, some of the tension in his neck suddenly less.  
  
"That's all I'm looking for."  
  
Stepping forward, Sam clasped a hand to Steve's shoulder. "Then I wish you all the best."  
  
Steve moved, pulling Sam into a fierce hug before he could protest it. Sam grumbled his complaint but hugged back with equal ferocity.

"When you heading out?"

Steve shook his head. "Few days, a week. Not long now. Just enough time to settle my business here. Buy up whatever supplies I'm taking." His mouth fell in a sharp line. "Visit Mom one last time."

"I can look after her," Sam said, quiet. "Bring her fresh flowers every week. Make sure no kids are defacing her headstone."

Steve nodded. He touched Steve's shoulder one last time before leaving him to his thoughts. Mad man was off on his journey of self-discovery, or something. Sam was happy to let him go, if that's what the Captain thought he needed. Sam, he knew who he was, what he wanted. No need to go gallivanting across half the world for that.

* * *

"One?" Sam asked, as he settled into the bar stool. The bartender didn't acknowledge him, keeping up his conversation with a women on the far end. Sam sighed and settled in. He'd get to him when he was ready.

Ten minutes later and Sam was wondering if he just shouldn't go to another bar. Or maybe grab lunch at the pub down the street. Kill two birds with one stone. One last time Sam tried to wave at the bartender. He was steadfastly ignored. Sighing, Sam pushed himself up from the bar and headed out.

They hadn't said it'd be different. No one had promised them that when they signed up to fight. But there'd been an unspoken understanding, a _hope_ , that this would do it. This would finally mark the end of a lifetime of hate, of put-downs and shut-outs. Of being treated like he was less than human, when he walked and talked just as well as the best of them.

A shoulder slammed into his as he walked down the street, deep in thought. "Excuse me," he apologized, barely looking up.

A hissed slur. Sam's head shot up in shock. The man who had bumped into him was still walking, though he looked back at Sam long enough to meet his eyes. Sam stumbled. The unbridled disgust and hatred in the man's expression was clear. The man turned away and kept walking, leaving Sam standing stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk.

At the next pub, Sam managed to get some service. But as he dug into his beans and steak, he could feel the eyes of the other patrons of the bar on him. He tried not to think about it, usually. Tried to push it down, push it aside. People were going to be people, were going to screw up and be ignorant and hold hate in their hearts. The best thing he could do was forget about it, ignore it, and keep his chin up. That's how his mother and father had raised him. Be brave, be good, be kind. Lead by example. But as Sam swallowed a forkful of beans down a dry throat, he suddenly felt the true weight of that responsibility for the first time. The weight of being an example, the _best_ example, under the constant scrutiny of other people's expectations.

He paid for his food and left, not even touching his beer. People were people, no matter where they were. But maybe, maybe in a place where people were to get away from the past, where they all shared that common thread... maybe. Maybe.

* * *

The sun rose in the east, hot against Sam's back. He leaned forward in his saddle, adjusting himself in the seat as he waited. Finally he heard the click click of spurs a moment before the man himself appeared through the stable door, Liberty trailing behind him.  
  
"Sam?" Steve's expression was confused for half a moment before it cleared, brightening in realization. "You're coming."  
  
Sam sighed, trying his best to look sheepish. He was pretty sure he didn't succeed in hiding his smile. As much as he hadn't been planning this, suddenly he was... excited. Ready. Hearing that same call Steve had heard. Ready for the great wide west.  
  
"Yeah, well." Sam twisted his mouth, trying to look vaguely irritated. By how big Steve was grinning at him, he was doing a downright terrible job. "Someone's got to be your deputy. Ain't that right, Sheriff?"  
  
Steve paused in saddling up his filly to rub the back of his neck. "Aw, well. I don't know if that's what-"  
  
Sam snorted and tossed something at Steve. He caught it, because of course he did. Steve peered down at the disk curiously before looking back up at Sam.  
  
"It's not a sheriff's star?"  
  
Sam shrugged. "Didn't have time to find one of those. Just saw that little disc in the blacksmith's window. Figure you can tap the points in on the road. Give you something to do. Or give it to the blacksmith in whatever backwater town we wash up in."  
  
Steve shrugged, turning the fist-sized disc over and over in his hand. "I don't know. I sort of like it this way." He tucked it in his pocket before returning his attention to his horse.  
  
"Can't be a sheriff without a star," Sam pointed out.  
  
Captain Rogers swung himself up onto Liberty, pensive look on his face as he squinted out to the still-dark western horizon. "Well. Maybe I'll put a star on it. Paint it on, you know."  
  
Sam snorted. "Who the hell ever heard of a painted on star? They'll think you're some kid playing dress up."  
  
Steve shrugged, broad shoulders relaxing into the saddle. "Isn't that how it is for everything?"  
  
He clicked his teeth and Liberty started forward. Sam followed him, Redwing shaking his head against the bridle before starting up. As they steered their horses onto the trail west, Sam settled forward in his saddle. He glanced over his shoulder just once, just long enough to get a portrait of the sunrise. Then he faced himself forward and stayed there.  
  
"Do you think we should have brought more supplies with us? Hitched the horses up to a wagon?"  
  
Steve glanced down at his saddle bag, then over at Sam. He looked vaguely worried. "Do you? I figured we'd just... Get whatever we needed on the road."  
  
Sam shrugged. "You're the man with the plan. I'm just going where you go." Sam scratched at his chin. Glancing at Steve: solid, sure, dependable Steve, Sam stifled a laugh. Casually he mused: "But maybe we should have brought some women with us. I mean, can't be too many of those out west."  
  
Very slowly, like the sun rising behind them, the back of Steve's neck turned pink. "I'm sure there's plenty of women making the same journey we are," he insisted, purposefully missing the point. "Women have as much reason as men to head out, get a fresh start."  
  
"Road's dangerous," Sam countered. "Sure, married women head out with their husbands, daughters with their families. But I don't see _available_ women heading out this same dusty trail." When Steve didn't reply, Sam pressed his luck: "And you know how handy those can be. You know. Serve a purpose."  
  
Steve threw up his hands. His ears were red. "There's men out there, too!" he finally pointed out. He turned in his saddle, flustered and frustrated.  
  
Unable to stifle it anymore, Sam burst out laughing. Steve's face reddened even more, cheeks blotchy pink. "Four years! Four years serving together, watching you bringing boys-"  
  
"-men," Steve insisted with a grumble.  
  
"-Back to your tent, and you think I didn't know."  
  
Pulling the brim of his hat down with a petulant tug, Steve faces forward again. "I wasn't hiding it. I'm sure you knew. Polite folk just don't make mention of it, _Private_."  
  
Sam snorted. "Yeah, and we're leaving the land of polite company behind, _Captain_. This is the wooly, Wild West we're heading into." Sam waved his arms before him, taking in the expanse of plains opening up before them.  
  
Steve shook his head. "That's not what the West is. It's freedom. Freedom from pointless convention, sure. But more importantly, it's freedom from our pasts. Our mistakes. Freedom to rebuild our world how we best see fit. Freedom to get it right. Freedom like what founded this country, only in this great modern era."  
  
Steve's words hung heavy in the thick dawn. Sam waited, feeling the words reverberate around them. After a long moment, he brought one hand up to his chest. "That was beautiful, Steve. You practice that at your vanity?"  
  
Steve sighed loudly.  
  
"No, really: you must've. Get up in the morning, say your prayers, practice speeches on freedom."  
  
"Why did I ever think bringing you along with me was a good idea?" Steve grumbled. "I _begged_ you. Why did I do that? What was I thinking?"  
  
Sam shrugged. The sky was brighter in front of them. Shining blue and bold. "You were thinking you love me. And you need someone to watch your back."  
  
"And I know no one better for that," Steve confirmed in that embarrassingly serious way he had.  
  
Sam sighed and squinted at the horizon. Westward, with Captain Rogers. What the hell was he getting himself into.


End file.
